


Downed Comrade

by Steggy



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Cemetery, Death, Depression, Explicit Language, F/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-29 00:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3875761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steggy/pseuds/Steggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate universe where Steve is the one who dies, and Bucky is the one left to grieve. Something he doesn't handle very well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downed Comrade

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another story for my writing class. Be fairly warned that this could be considered a triggering piece. Please read with caution.
> 
> bother me on twitter @alyjevans or on tumblr @spangledcap & @poorcap

A long drag from a cigarette. A puff of smoke billowed across the void, fanning out across the cement, blocking out the words sketched into it until clearing seconds later. He always tried to ensure his friend’s happiness. The last thing he wanted was for his comrade to miss out on his smokes. Even if he was six feet under and a headstone was all that remained..

_“BARNES!”_

_His heart raced. His finger trembled on the trigger. The sounds of bullets ricocheting against bark, some splitting the wood, echoed in the forest._

_“Barnes, get in there and cover me!”_

_His feet wouldn’t move. His eyes squeezed closed. Breathe, James. Breathe._

_When he opened his eyes, blood splattered across his face, stinging as a red film spread across his vision._

_His friend fell at his feet._

He coughed before dropping the cigarette and stamping it out with the toe of his boot.

Then he mumbled, “I’ll be back next week, Steve.”

His feet carried the dead weight that hung throughout his whole body. They carried him through the cemetery, away from where he should be, away from his best friend. They brought him into the city. Into a bar. Then to a stool, where he would make his final stance before the alcohol drowned his blood and sentenced him to another drunken night that would bring him to another morning of grief and pain. 

He tipped back beer after beer. Shot after shot. The lights blurred. The radio buzzed rather than playing the jazz James had grown to detest now that he was back. His own laughter sounded muddled, and it most likely had something to do with it not being genuine. He nearly missed the touch of a steady, manicured hand on his shoulder, the feeling of her smooth, velvet voice ringing in his ears.

She said his name. Then his nickname, the one _he’d_ given to him as a kid. His muscles tightened. His jaw hardened. Eyes met those of his addresser. 

“He wouldn’t have wanted this.”

And he broke.

If he could hit her, he would have.

Tears stung in his eyes, pouring down his cheeks as he struggled to stand from the stool, pointing a shaky finger at her unsteady form. 

“D-don’t you tell- don’t you tell me what the fuck he wanted!” He slurred. His face flushed. His anger lit his nerves on fire. He slammed his fist down on the bar, nearly missing, the sound echoing in the building. “He’s fucking dead. He’s fucking dead, and I didn’t do a damn- a damn fucking thing to prevent it!”

A glass found his hand. Another tip of the head. Another burn of liquor down his throat. 

The woman had taken a step back. He stumbled toward her, eyes narrowing, finger still pointing. Other hand still gripping a shot glass. “He’s fucking dead, and I should be, too. Don’t- don’t fucking tell me what he wanted. You have no right. Leave me the fuck- leave me to die, Carter! Leave me to die, dammit!” 

The glass shattered an inch from his feet, an inch from hers. A curse, an insult. Another scream. A deeper voice shouted behind him. His whole body turned, momentarily stable, momentarily quick. His fist connected with flesh and bone, heard the crack of a jaw, and he watched the man fall. Seconds. Then another was on him. And another. And another. A fist found his stomach. Another found the side of his head. One man grabbed his shoulders, he fought, he shook, he kicked at the man’s groin, he punched at whatever flesh he could find of the others’. He screamed. He cursed. Tears continued to burn in his eyes. 

One man got his arm round his neck and pulled back. Tight.

The last thing he heard was the scream of his name at her damned lips before it the world went black.

 

 

\---

 

 

 

_“BARNES!”_

_“Barnes, get in there and cover me!”_

 

 

\---

 

 

Too bright. Loud beeping. Too clean. His eyes struggled against the light, a groan pushed through clenched teeth. An ache spread through his entire body. The stark white hospital sheets clung to his damp, sweaty skin. The heart monitor rung in his ears, screeching with every quickened, irregular beat. His rapid breath rustled the sheets as his chest rose and fell.

He could only move to turn and vomit on the floor before passing out again.

 

 

\---

 

 

A soothing voice called for him to wake. His eyes squeezed closed, refusing, even though the pain had somehow numbed him and dulled the light, dulled the sound. He wanted to leave. He wanted to go. He needed to apologize.

He didn’t want to live.

He attempted to lift his arm, to push away the figure poised at the edge of his bed, to let him go, let him die. But an IV kept him tethered. To the bed. To life. 

He gave in and dared to look. 

A woman peered down at him. For a moment, he tensed, preparing for the uproar that threatened to be released inside of him. Then, he relaxed, fighting his instinct at the sight of the amber locks that hung at her cheeks. All before feeling the familiar pull in his stomach again, causing him to turn, but where he’d vomited on the floor, there now stood a trash can he so kindly used this time. 

The woman seemed unfazed, though her eyebrows furrowed slightly at him when he finished and sat back up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn’t want her to speak. He wanted her to leave. He wanted her to let him go. He wanted to tell her what he had screamed at Carter, which he had somehow remembered, but he would be nicer this time. He had to say goodbye. There was no reason for him to live anymore. 

But she spoke anyway. “Hello, James.”

He stared at her silently.

His reaction only rousing a sigh, she pressed, leaning towards him ever so slightly. “James, what the hell are you doing?”

_Letting go. Why can’t anyone let me?_

He continued to stare at her before he shook his head, not at all surprised by the slight pounding it induced. “Why the hell do you care, Nat?”

It was her turn to stare at him. 

He shifted uncomfortably, needing to redirect his attention, unnerved by her gaze. 

“You want to die, don’t you?”

He hated her bluntness. He looked up at her. He despised her for it. He loathed her for it. He—

“Why wouldn’t I? I fucking killed my best friend, and I couldn’t fucking man up to walk right up to a damn German and let him take his shot at me during the war, so now I have to live with it. I have to live without one of the few people I ever fucking cared about. Well, I don’t fucking want to, Nat. So, do me a favor. Leave me the hell alone, tell _Carter_ to leave me the hell alone, tell _EVERYONE_ to leave me the fuck alone so I can fucking die in peace.”

She barely moved. Her eyes burned into him. This time, he didn’t look away. Her expression didn’t change, his didn’t either. They stared at each other for a long time before she stood up silently and walked to the open door, closing it. And locking it. 

Her hand reached behind her, and it came back wielding a pistol. One she held out toward him, one she tossed onto his lap once she was close enough.

“If you want to die so badly, James, then do it. Take the gun, and do it,” She hissed.

His eyes widened. The heart monitor beeped quicker, louder. “Nat—”

“ _Do it_.” 

His hand trembled as it reached for the handle, as it slowly snaked around it, grasped it. Held it firm. Felt the weight of his life falling into his hand. He lifted it from his lap, eyeing the black metal, avoiding the wisp of red hair still in his vision. This was it. He could end it right now. He could find Steve. He could apologize. He could grovel for forgiveness to his face rather than at the blank, night sky he cried to every night he wasn’t shitfaced. 

“But before you do it, I need you to shoot me first.”

His grip faltered on the gun as his eyes shot up to her, shock etching into his face, his mouth opening and closing with nothing finding its way out. He swallowed. Hard.

She rolled her eyes at him, emotionless, as she dared onto the bed again, crawling over him, straddling his waist. The heart monitor became more persistent, became louder. Faster. Her hand found his. Her finger guided his to the trigger. And her hand brought the barrel of the gun to her forehead as she stared down into his eyes.

“Shoot me first if you’re gonna do it. Shoot me first, so I can stop hiding. Shoot me first, so I can stop fucking running. Shoot me first, so _I_ don’t have to live without the only person _I_ care about.”

He swore the heart monitor stopped. His hand shook, hers gripped tighter and steadied it. Her determined eyes bore into his. 

A curse rolled off his lips, and his eyes flooded with tears.

The gun fell back to his lap, his hand fell far away from it before it reached back up to her cheek, before it pulled her forehead down to his.

His eyes squeezed closed. He inhaled sharply. He felt her relax, felt a drip of water fall on to his nose.

“Why did you have to find me?” He whispered brokenly, focusing on her. Focusing on the tears that brushed his fingertips as they stroked across her cheekbone. The beat of her heart he felt beneath her skin, the flow of blood through her veins. He focused on her breath as it mixed with his.

He pushed back _his_ screams. He pushed back the allure of death, the allure of joining him. He pushed it back. His heart was in tatters, his heart was all but gone, but he pushed it back, and he focused on her.

“Where’s the fun in making it easy?” 

For the first time in months, the corners of his lips genuinely tugged up in the ghost of a smile.

And when he opened his eyes, hers were already peering back at him, her hard expression softened, tears rolling down her cheeks. He’d never seen her cry.

It hurt.

But she was smiling.

And he was trying to.

And then he was crying.

Her arms wrapped around him, and she held him as his body shook with sobs, as his hands balled into the fabric of her shirt, as his face buried itself into the crook of her neck and soaked her skin in tears.

The gun went forgotten.

 

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: Would anyone like to see an addition piece to this?


End file.
